


monachopsis

by shinrakishitani



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Other, pregame personalities, self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinrakishitani/pseuds/shinrakishitani
Summary: Shuichi Saihara and his boyfriend are doing just fine until Rantaro Amami comes along and dies, leaving a mystery murder that all leads back to Ouma and his mysterious organization. ( this is a rough draft, i'd like feedback but u totally don't have 2!!!)
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Kudos: 10





	monachopsis

The uncomfortably unsettling saffron did not go at all with the notoriously knowledgeable, tall and charming deep navy haired teenager. His eyes were fox-like, yellow and bright and always shifting and running around his skull. The straight and shiny, longish hair fell in front of these horribly emphasized things, all of which ruined the rest of the lovely appearance. Saihara was tall and thin with very long legs and very veiny arms, pale beige skin and long, dark, dramatic eyelashes. Often the boy was seen in his overly expensive suit, which was not the school uniform but was excused as his uncle was prepared to pay off anything. As well, he was often seen with aubergine haired and plum eyed counterpart, Ouma. Ouma, who had deep bags and bruises and only wore the distastefully stifling uniform. Ouma, who cried when he got called on and failed all his tests yet still passed by virtue of constantly retaking them. He was short and much thinner, though his legs were abnormally spindly, much like Saihara's. He was a slouching and slumped form on a good day, a grovelling mess on the average if he was enabled so much as to do so.

Yet Saihara, man of many desires, was totally living within the former grape flavored foil. Spending as much time as possible attached to each other, Ouma seen holding his arm and Saihara seen stroking his hair when he went into one of his crying fits. Crying fits which happened all too often and all too often ended in Ouma being so exhausted, all of his energy used, that he would pass out directly in Saihara’s eager and tender arms. His small and dramatically thin body had no energy for anything, Ouma lived meal to meal and everything in between was the journey, some days. Some days, Saihara, in all of his eternally kind and ethereal glory, would take Ouma home with him to eat an actual meal, which the former absolutely died for. He was in heaven on Earth and food depended on Saihara, a man-child who obsessed over Danganronpa and forensics and his friend on a near constant basis. He was a conformist at peak, two faced and double sided as a coin at worst.

See, in the public eye Saihara may have been an example of studious perfection, with an internship, killer grades, and no missed deadlines. He knew what he was doing and went about the world with more ease than an old man in a strip club or a greasy, unhygienic teenager at cons. He smiled at girls just to see their knees buckle and he wrapped his arms around sick friends and always helped that stupid, special Ouma who stuttered and cried and whimpered at loud noises and sudden motions. He saved everyone the pain of feeling bad for Kokichi by virtue of being his only friend, and Ouma being Saihara’s only friend. Spending days together, Ouma at Saihara’s expensive house, almost living in Saihara’s bed and sheets. All in a smoke filled room, hazy with fog and pangs of discomfort as Saihara grabbed at his thighs and pulled him into his lap, hard on clearly apparent. It wasn't a big deal or particularly awful, it was just unsettling how often Shuichi begged for that and how he ironically got off during the murder scenes and trials. 

And Ouma truly felt nothing but terror in a sheer form when he realized this was a pattern for the other, for every murder he got handsy and during the trial the kissing or licking or biting started slowly, slowly. The execution was the climax of this weird ritual, Shuichi never really playing so much with Kokichi. The smaller had refused to ever let Shuichi do that, claiming he wanted to wait for the right moment. Really, he just didn’t want his lover to discard him after taking something important. He didn’t want to like that stupid new kid in school either, even if he did cosplay Rantaro every single day, even if he did like Danganronpa, even if he was stupidly tall and had a stupidly deep voice, Ouma hated the way he intimidated others and used his stupid resemblence to Amami to seduce Saihara's interest. Ouma felt a startling sense of disgust and terror when Saihara’s long and heavy fingers settled over his tongue and tasted like… 

Smoke. Like deep, choking, black, tar tasting smoke. Amami would smoke, like a chimney in fact. The roof of the school, behind it, in the ditch on the way home, in the bathrooms. Always smelling vaguely suffocating, like a particularly bad cologne, matching the same tone and pitch and way of speaking of the character, would tell people he was him. Of course, Ouma's naive Saihara would believe such a lie, he would fall head over heels with Amami's stories of the people he played the game with, he would fall in love with the way his hair still held the familiar ahoge, he would fall in love with Amami's tragic life style, completely losing all memories of Ouma's own. 

But the even more tragic fact was Ouma enjoyed Amami, a big brotherly and caring presence, ever constant and caring, albeit daydreaming. He was a wonderful addition to Saihara and Ouma's dynamic, adding a certain amount of care Shuichi couldn't offer him. In Saihara's large bed they would lay, rewatching Rantaro's old episodes, laughing at Monokuma's commentary. Yet occasionally, Ouma would find Amami drifting off, like visiting a long ways off dream. He would look at the screen with a glazed over look Saihara had yet to notice of him, suck in his lips and scrunch his long, straight nose. 

And maybe, sometimes, Ouma would rub his hard back and pet his hair to make whatever thoughts he had escape, he would poke the tall lock of ahoge and rest his head on his shoulder, he would do anything in his power to soothe his friend. All while hating every single thing he stood for, hating how he stood between Ouma and Saihara, lay between them so literally. 


End file.
